


Sir

by Waking_dreams



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM, Dirty Talk, F/M, Femdom, Oral Sex, Smut, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 09:53:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2503577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waking_dreams/pseuds/Waking_dreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Draco, is that what good boys do?” Her voice was light, deceptively calm.<br/>He felt his heart leap into action and begin pounding in his chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sir

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I own none of the characters or Harry Potter itself.

            “Draco,” Hermione repeated, sounding slightly annoyed. “Are you listening to me?” She stood in front of him with her hands white-knuckled and on her hips.

            Draco’s head snapped up at her tone. He couldn’t help the shiver that went across his body at her voice. _That_ voice. The one that usually was the prelude to having his ass spanked over her knee. The one that usually had him squirming across her much-smaller frame, seeking friction for his cock—which she was surely ignoring. “I’m listening now,” he promised. Could she hear the rough edge to his voice?

            Her eyes narrowed into slits. “I was asking you for your opinion. On Ron. Who has been an ass lately. Who has been driving me crazy at work since I got that promotion.”

Her clipped tones were like a series of small blows over his flesh, leaving goose bumps in their wake. He bit his lip, trying not to become aroused. She was annoyed. That wasn’t supposed to make his cock swell and his attention falter. “Have you tried telling him to bugger off?” he suggested. _Don’t look at her mouth, don’t look at her mouth._

He was staring at her mouth.

She let out a breath that was half strangled laugh, half sigh. “Draco. Will you be serious for once?” She shot him a sharp look, adding some bite to her words.

“Yes, sir,” he replied instinctively, the words heavy across his tongue. He could feel his cock twitch in his trousers, and he shifted, trying to hide it from her.

Her eyes focused on him intently. “Are you hard?” she asked suddenly, incredulously.

He shifted again, restless under her gaze. The amusement on her face was off-putting, jolting him away from the place in his head that was limited to pleas and single-syllable responses. He glanced away from her, and reached down to adjust himself in his pants, half-ashamed of his _kind of_ inappropriate response. “I—“

“You are,” she interrupted. The amusement was gone from her face. “Draco, is that what good boys do?” Her voice was light, deceptively calm.

_Fuck yes._ He felt his heart leap into action and begin pounding in his chest. “No,” he whispered, trying to contain his excitement and keep it from showing too blatantly on his face (or she’d probably make him go to bed without coming). He left his hand over the fly of his trousers, hoping to calm himself a little.

She wasn’t done with him, though. “Do good boys refuse to listen when people confide in them? Do their cocks get hard when people are looking to them for advice?” Trailing her fingertips along the wall, she slowly approached where he was sitting on the couch.

“No,” he repeated. He couldn’t help himself, couldn’t help that she had practically _conditioned_ him to react to her commanding voice. “I’m—“

“No, what?” she snapped. Having finally reached him, she leaned over him—towered over him—and cupped his throat with her hand, lightly stroking the sides of his neck.

Draco’s eyes fluttered closed at the contact. “No, sir,” he corrected himself, and was rewarded with a slight squeeze on his throat. She released him far too soon, and he licked over his lips longingly.

“Get up,” she told him coldly, and he scrambled to his feet before her. She smoothly stepped around his body to sit on the couch. “Strip.”

He looked at her for a second, taking in the arrogant, lazy position she had adopted across the couch and the intent way she looked at him, and then he was hastily tugging his shirt over his head, not bothering with unbuttoning it. She made a disapproving noise in her throat, and his fingers on the buttons of his trousers froze.

“Slower,” she ordered him, her eyes lingering on his stomach, the fine hairs disappearing into his trousers, the bulge in his pants.

He could feel his own reaction to her command: the tension, the slight trembling of his hands. He made a show of slowing unbuttoning his trousers and unzipping them—did she bite her lip? He was biting his own lip now, peeling the fabric from his hips and thighs, revealing his boxers. His hand brushed over his cock, and he longed to cup himself, to give himself that sense of relief. The way Hermione was watching him kept him on track, and he tried to shimmy out of his trousers in what was hopefully an arousing way.

“Look at you,” she murmured. He froze at the sound of her voice. “So hard, trying to please your sir.”

He actually groaned out loud at that, unable to help himself, and slid his boxers from his body. His cock was heavy and full against his stomach, smearing precome across his skin. He watched her, admired the fullness of her lips and the swell of her hips and the curve of her breasts and the slenderness of her hands. _Her hands_. They had been everywhere on his body— _everywhere_ —and right now, all he wanted was her hands wrapped around his cock, her hands tugging his hair to lead him to her breasts, her clit.

“It’s _such_ a shame you were a bad boy tonight. Bad boys don’t get fucked, don’t get their cock sucked.”

Draco whimpered, a little whine escaping his throat, and jerked his hand to brush the side of his cock as his hips stuttered forward. “Please,” he whispered roughly. “Please, sir, touch me—“

“You haven’t earned it,” she told him bluntly. “At least, not in that way. Come here, Draco.” She gestured to her lap. “Facedown.”

He rushed to do as she said. The first few times they had assumed this position, he had fretted over the awkwardness of their height differences—his legs would dangle off the couch if he tried to fit his head comfortably on the opposite arm of the sofa. She had robbed him of such concerns—after all, his comfort was not the point, she had once reminded him. The point was _them_ , this exchange of power, his giving and her taking. As he settled into her lap with his cock pressed tightly between her thighs and his stomach, he tried to remember that: he was hers, and this was about them, not him.

The first slap was unexpected, a loud crack in the static of the room. He groaned, slow and drawn out, and his hips jerked forward, dragging his cock across her legs. The friction was delightful, and his hips repeated the motion. A second slap quickly followed, and he buried his head in the fabric of the couch to try to muffle himself. A third slap, this time on the opposite side, had him grinding even more insistently against her.

“You’re not going to come from this,” she warned him, and his cock twitched. “Count.”

The fourth slap landed across the backs of his thighs and jarred him. He raised his head from his arm to groan out, “Four.” The fifth slap was harder than the others, and he whimpered more than groaned the count.

Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. He had built up a steady rhythm against her legs, one where he rolled forward with the momentum of her hand, cried out the count, and jerked back to meet the next slap.

Ten, eleven, twelve. He hadn’t broken yet. He felt like his body is swelling, like he would burst any second, like any touch would make him explode.

Thirteen, fourteen. The slaps had begun to hurt less—he was floating, drifting. His ass felt so hot, and he thought of the coolness of her mouth, pictured it ghosting over his reddened skin. He nearly missed the count, and the fifteenth slap was the hardest yet.

“Color,” Hermione whispered to him, smoothing her hand over the curve of his ass.

He still felt disconnected, like he wasn’t fully on Earth, but he understood the gravity of her words. “Green,” he confirmed. “Green, green, green—“ He cut himself off with a groan, thrusting his hips down at number sixteen.

They made it to thirty-five before he was a shaking mess, biting into his palm and shuddering at each touch—whether he was trying not to cry or not to come was beyond him. She stopped then, smoothing her hand along his back and over his ass, soothing him. Her fingers lightly brushed his hole, and he felt the touch throughout his entire body, igniting nerves that he had thought had burnt out. He jerked his hips back, seeking her hand, her fingers, but she had moved them.

“Not tonight, baby,” she whispered to him, and he whimpered. He felt so deconstructed, so broken, so delightfully ruined and thoroughly horny. “You’re so good. So, so good. So good for me. For your sir.” She could just have been babbling, but he preened under every soft word, absorbing the attention like a sponge.

“Wanna fuck you,” he mumbled into the fabric of the couch. A sharp tug on his hair had him hissing and raising his head. “Please, sir, let me fuck you.” He wasn’t whining, per se, but he knew he was only a seconds away.

“Can you get up for me, baby?” she whispered to him, lightly pulling at his arms. He obliged, climbing off her lap to sit beside her, and leaned down so his mouth was pressed to the skin at her neck to suck lightly. “Easy, baby. Help me out of these.” She had begun to unbutton her blouse.

Suddenly explicitly aware of how _hard_ he was, his cock red and shiny and twitching, he hurried to help her push the shirt from her shoulders. She unhooked her bra and tossed it to the side. Instantly his eyes were on her breasts, round and small and perfect, with her rosy pink nipples. He reached out slowly, hoping she would let him touch. She said nothing, and he cupped one breast in his hand, feeling the lovely weight of it in his palm and the response of his cock.

“Draco,” she said suddenly, and he froze. “Look.”

She was gesturing to her pants, which had a noticeable dark spot on them. He blankly stared until it dawned on him: he had gotten precome all over her trousers. He could feel himself flush at the thought that he had been so thoroughly lost in himself and in her hands that he had practically come into her lap. _Merlin._ He leaned over her, pressed his mouth to that little dark section and sucked, rasped his tongue over the faintly salty taste of him. Her hand wove into his hair and _tugged_ , wrenching a moan from his mouth as his head craned back.

“You’ll have to make it up to me, won’t you?” she told him, sounding thoroughly unimpressed. He nodded as much as he could with her hand still tightly in his hair. “Good boy.” She released his hair and reached to undo the fly of her pants and slip them over the swell of her hips.

She wasn’t wearing knickers. _Fuck_. He wanted to bury his face in her, drown in the taste of Hermione Granger, lick and suck until she was shaking around him. “Please,” he breathed, trembling slightly. “Please, sir, can I—?”

“Eager boy,” she commented warmly, and bucked her hips to kick off her pants. “Think you’ve earned it, baby?”

He nodded frantically as she twisted her body, slipping a slender leg behind him, to lie on the couch. He could see the very core of her, spread out for him and _glistening_ —fuck. He wanted to lick her from head to toe, cover himself in her, mix them until he couldn’t separate himself. “Please, sir,” he repeated desperately, his body strung tight as he waited for her response.

“Make me come, baby,” she replied roughly, her eyes hot.

He wasted no time in sliding back on the couch to grab her thighs, bracing her open, so he could crouch to lick a stripe along her little slit. She was slick and sweet-bitter-Hermione in his mouth, and he pressed himself closer, wedging his shoulders between her legs. He immediately set to work sucking on her clit, rolling it across his tongue, mindful of the way her thighs tightened beside him. She was heady in his mouth, a hot mix, and he groaned into her, sliding one arm between them to press two of his fingers into her. The feel of her clamping around him had him shuddering as he traced his tongue across her clit, breathing fine streams of air just to see her back arch off the couch.

“Fuck,” she groaned, and when he glanced up, he realized she had braced herself up to watch him, watch his face trapped between her thighs, watch the muscles of his back strung tight. “You’re so good, baby. Always so good at this. At making me feel good.”

He slid his fingers in and out of her body with renewed effort, pumping his wrist (he would be so, so pleasantly sore later) in time with the kittenish licks he placed across her. She was so, so perfect—the way her body caved to let him in, the way he swore he could feel her heartbeat in his mouth, the way she came undone and lost that immaculate control at his mouth, his hands. Make her come. He had to make her come, please her—he had to be a good boy. He curled his fingers inside her, nearly losing his rhythm as her body jolted at the sensation—back arched, fingers stabbing into the couch, nipples high and tight, heels dug into his back.

“That’s it,” she moaned, face reddened and eyes glassy.

He did it again, and again, and she got louder, less coherent in her encouragements. He sucked hard on her clit, knowing that it probably hurt, that it was too much, too soon—and suddenly she was gasping and tightening around him and he was desperate for her, releasing her clit to lick at her entrance, pulsing around his fingers as she came. He could feel her body shaking all the way down to her calves pressed into his sides.

He was suddenly _aching_ for praise, for reassurance that he had pleased her—that she was pleased. He lifted his mouth from her—Merlin, she was all over his _face_ , from his jaw to his nose—and looked up at her. She was still braced up on her elbows, but they were trembling, and a flush had spread across her throat and her breasts. She gave him a lazy smile, and he felt himself relax. He’d done alright, then. “Sir?” he whispered.

The lazy smile became a smirk. “You look so good with your face all wet from me,” she told him. “You did so well, hmm? I’ll give you a little reward. You’re going to fuck me, and I’ll let you choose how.”

It was like he’d been having an out-of-body experience: suddenly he became painfully aware of how much he _ached_ from wanting her: his cock throbbing between his legs, his balls heavy, the heat across his body. When he opened his mouth to answer, he found the words hard to form.

She was always quick on the uptake. “You want me to ride you, hmm? Or do you want me face down in front of you so you can really fuck your sir?” His throat dry, he nodded frantically to the second. She laughed—a deep, lusty sound. “Good boy.”

She sat up then, grabbed his chin to maneuver him into kissing her. She moaned as their tongues touched—she tasted herself, he realized, and then he was enthusiastically kissing her back, letting her. Her hand slid to his throat and there was a delightful pressure there, briefly—he leaned in to prolong it—before she broke the kiss to turn her back to him. She rested on all fours, legs spread so he could see how wet she was, wet from his spit and her own arousal, and shot him a deadly smirk over her shoulder.

“Go at it, baby. Fuck me,” she tossed back at him, her eyes practically devouring him whole.

He was a study in motion: quick, jagged motion that had him behind her, lining his cock up to her entrance in mere seconds. He slid inside her then, groaning as she enveloped him. She was a glove: a wet, hot little glove that was molded to him exactly so. He couldn’t move at first, just adapting to the feeling of being so, so surrounded and almost overwhelmed by it.

She was the one who broke the stillness, sliding forward and then back on his cock abruptly. “I told you to fuck me,” she snapped, all business now, and the words jump-started him.

He slid his hands around her hips to gain leverage, and then he was rocking into her, quickly building a rhythm. She was moaning sinfully at each thrust, resting her head on her arms in a way that had him fucking into her harder, determined to win a reaction from her. He groaned himself at the increased friction on his cock—he had been hard for _so long_ —and it almost hurt how full he felt, ready to burst entirely too soon.

“Love your cock,” she moaned from beneath him. His rhythm stuttered at the sound, low and so, so hot. “You fuck me so well, baby, just the way I want. Bet you feel like you’re going to come—you almost came all over my lap earlier, just from my hand on you.”

He moaned at that, digging his fingers into her hip to thrust harder, faster—he wanted more, more, and he couldn’t get it fast enough. She was an iron clamp, an aphrodisiac, a siren, and he couldn’t come without her coming first. He wanted her to come around him, wanted to please her again. “Please,” he whimpered, panting as he thrust against her.

“You going to make me do all the work, baby?” she asked, not sounding entirely pleased with him despite the pet name.

It was the _displeasure_ in her tone that had him moaning, reaching around her hip to fumble for her clit. She was impossibly tight, he thought, so good, so very good. He pressed his thumb against her, angling his hips to (hopefully) hit the spot that would usually get her writhing on his cock. She cried out, shaking, and suddenly reared up, balancing on just her knees, to reach back around him.

He wasn’t expecting it when she dug her fingers into his ass, into the skin still sensitive, still inflamed and probably red from his spanking, and the sudden sharp pain of it made him choke for air and feel his orgasm approaching even more rapidly than before. Then she rotated her fingers to dig her nails in, and he was letting his air out in a rush, feeling white-hot and high with it, and frantically rubbing her clit, and then he was there: he was coming with a groan, and she was batting his hand out of the way to use her own hand to bring herself with him, tight hot wet, and he was floating, drifting.

At some point he pulled out, and some other point they ended up in their bed upstairs. She was warm and so soft against him, whispering that he was such a good boy, so good, so lovely and perfect. She kept kissing him, light sucking kissing, warm and gentle.

At some point, he remembered what had actually lead them to that particular scene, and snorted. “If you show Ron this memory, he’d probably stop challenging your authority at work,” he told her with a smirk.

She shot him a knowing smile. “I might consider it, if I didn’t know how much of an exhibitionist little shit you are. I’ll handle Ron,” she told him confidently. A pause. “And you can go on and keep being a little shit. It’s nice.”

He smiled against her hair. “Will do.”

 


End file.
